


A Price Upon His Head

by starlightwalking



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Lay of Leithian, M/M, Morgoth's Bounty System, kind of silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29249370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starlightwalking/pseuds/starlightwalking
Summary: “At length Morgoth set a price upon his [Beren’s] head no less than the price upon the head of Fingon, High King of the Noldor...”or: How Public Enemy No.2 became Public Enemy No.3 and got his feelings hurt. Luckily he has Public Enemy No.1 around to comfort him.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 32
Kudos: 76





	A Price Upon His Head

**Author's Note:**

> Summary quote from the “Of Beren and Lúthien” chapter of the published Silm.
> 
> I saw that line and immediately wondered what the ranking system was...upon a closer read I think probably Beren and Fingon’s bounties were equal, but I had the idea for Beren demoting Maedhros from second to third, and it was too amusing not to write. This is a little bit silly; don’t take it all that seriously. It quite possibly takes place in the same verse as "[Love, Finno](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/68024182)" .....

“Darling, I think this is a _good_ thing,” Fingon sighed without any real hope of calming his husband down. “We don’t want the Enemy _more_ focused on you!”

Maedhros paced about the room like an angry cat. “But we were the first and second most wanted,” he grumbled. “I don’t want this—this _mortal_ taking my spot! Would _you_ prefer him to me, too?”

Fingon snorted. “That is nonsense, love. You’ll always be worth more than some mortal in my heart.”

Striding swiftly to where Fingon sat watching his husband pace, Maedhros knelt before him and kissed his hand. “And you will always be worth more than myself, in mine.”

“Sweetheart, _no_ ,” Fingon said, exasperated. “The price upon my head has only very recently surpassed yours! Does that mean I was worth less before I was crowned High King?”

Maedhros drew back, affronted. “Of course not,” he said, sounding more insulted on Fingon’s behalf than he ever was on his own. “It is just that—that Morgoth only just realized how precious you are—”

Fingon kissed his silly words away, pulling Maedhros into his lap. His husband went willingly, but no amount of touch would ease the tension in his body.

“I don’t think we should be taking Morgoth’s opinion on our worth into this much consideration, pumpkin,” he murmured. “I love you more than he could ever dream of hating you.”

“I know,” Maedhros said gruffly, and rested his forehead against Fingon’s. There was a wonder in his silver eyes that pierced Fingon’s heart as it had every day since he first knew he loved Prince Maitimo. “But that the Enemy is more afraid of this mortal than he is of me— _me_ , Maedhros Fëanorion, Lord of Himring, a survivor of Angband—!”

Fingon restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Alright, sugarplum,” he said soothingly, rubbing his hands on Maedhros’ back. “I can see that there is little that will calm you. How about you go massacre some orcs, and remind the Enemy just how fearsome you are? Will that make you feel better?”

Maedhros slumped down a bit, curling his large frame around Fingon’s smaller body. “Yes,” he admitted, mumbling into his husband’s shoulder. “But...come with me? Our enemies should know how dreadful we are in battle together. None can withstand our might.”

“Of course, honeypie,” Fingon said sweetly, and kissed his neck. In truth he would rather have Maedhros here, in his arms, but—well, their coupling _was_ always delightfully wild after a battle. He could wait for that until Maedhros was in better spirits.

Maedhros sat up straight, giving him a stern look. “And stop it with these...nicknames. You sound ridiculous.”

Fingon laughed. “No, sweetpea. I’m making _you_ sound ridiculous.”

* * *

Maedhros lay drunk on the floor, tears flowing freely from his eyes in a way that they never did when he was sober. Fingon’s leg was falling asleep from the weight of his husband’s head in his lap, but it was unthinkable to leave him in this state.

“ _He got a Silmaril_ ,” Maedhros slurred brokenly.

Fingon ran a hand through his hair comfortingly. “Yes, darling, he did...”

“I was there for _thirty years_ and I never even got _close_ —” Maedhros attempted to ball his right hand into a fist, but forgetting he no longer had said appendage, only hit the stump of his arm on the floor. Fingon took his wrist gently and kissed the wound, his heart panging for the loss. He regretted every day that he had taken this from his beloved—but he could never regret taking his beloved from that mountain.

“He was only there for—for an _hour_ ,” Maedhros bemoaned. “Thirty years I failed—and in an hour he did what I could not—”

“It’s alright, let it out,” Fingon murmured, knowing that any logical reassurances would do nothing for Maedhros in this state.

“Finno,” Maedhros whispered. “Finno, Morgoth was right.”

At this Fingon froze. No— _no_ , they were _not_ going back to this. It had been centuries since Maedhros had let Morgoth’s evils creep back into his mind; he would never be free from the shadow of Angband, but Fingon had thought they were past _this_ part of it.

“What?” he said, trying not to let his horror show.

“He was _right_. This—this Beren fellow, he _is_ worth more than me.”

Fingon relaxed a little. _Oh_. It was only about that pointless bounty. As if the Dark Lord would ever pay a mercenary for fulfilling it; he would just as soon take them as captive as he would their prey. Still, he’d thought Maedhros was over this petty slight from their Enemy—was he truly bothered by it, even now?

“Russo,” he sighed, “come now, you know that’s—”

“ _He got a Silmaril!_ ” Maedhros explained, half sitting up. Fingon groaned in relief, stretching out his leg, but he kept his gaze fixed upon his husband. “He’s—he’s better at fulfilling the Oath than I am! Me! Fëanáro’s eldest son!”

There was no reasoning him out of that conclusion, not so inebriated as Maedhros was now. Instead Fingon tried a different tactic.

“Well,” he said slowly, “there’s still two left in the Iron Crown. Why don’t we prove that you’re twice as terrifying as he is, and snatch them away yourself? After all, he used your brother’s knife for it—and Angrist was made by the same smith as Narsil.”

Maedhros was silent for a long moment, his curtain of red hair falling into his face, obscuring his eyes from Fingon.

“Finno?” he said at last, his voice quiet.

“Hmm?”

“I love you.” Maedhros lifted his head and smiled a fearsome smile, showing the points of his sharp teeth, his silver eyes blazing with a queer light. “You are the best husband a nér could wish for. Do you really think we can do it?”

“With me at your side, of course we can,” Fingon declared, grasping Maedhros’ hand and sharing his hard-won estel with his husband, letting it fill both their hearts through their bond. “If a mortal can do it, surely we can also. Beren son of Barahir may be Morgoth’s second greatest enemy, but I believe that his first and third greatest foes are more than a match for him—and for Morgoth, also!”

**Author's Note:**

> re: Narsil: I go with the headcanon that Narsil was originally Maedhros’ sword (that he passed down to Elros); both Narsil and Angrist were canonically made by the dwarven smith Telchar (who also made the Dragon-helm!)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment if you enjoyed!  
> You can find me on tumblr [@arofili](https://arofili.tumblr.com/).


End file.
